


paint it red

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, PAINT AND FLUFF AND SOME SADS AND THEN TITANIC, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly and Bahorel have been friends since the day they met. They'd never really expected to be anything more than that -- but people rarely get to choose how and when they fall in love. Grantaire, Bahorel's roommate, catches on quickly, but he's happy for them! Or at least, he's as happy as a nihilist can actually be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paint it red

“Where’d you get the supplies?” 

Feuilly looked up from a large, paint-slicked canvas. “R.”

“And you let him?” Bahorel asked with a teasing grin. Feuilly wasn’t exactly well-known for accepting charity unless it came in a little box with a health warning stamped across the side. “I’m so proud.”

He dropped his backpack in the middle of the floor and lunged onto Feuilly’s empty bed, sprawling out like he owned it. 

Feuilly rolled his eyes and kept painting. 

He didn’t get to do his own thing very often. He wasn’t committed to buying the supplies himself — he could bring things home from work, but it wasn’t much, and it wasn’t satisfying. And more often than not, he just didn’t have the time. 

But when the rare, and perfect opportunity did arise — he was in heaven. 

He didn’t think about coffee. He didn’t think about smoking. He didn’t think about work, or wars, or history, or his books. He didn’t think about France and freedom and all those fucking things he cared too much about. 

Okay, sometimes he thought about Bahorel — but when the bastard showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night for no reason other than “I’m bored”, he became hard to forget. 

He didn’t think about the paint on his hands, and how he smudged it across his face as he stood back and considered his work. He didn’t realise that he’d left blue streaks in his very red hair as he’d run both hands through it when he’d made a mistake. He was lucky he’d ditched his shirt, because there were purple spots from his fingers at his waist.

Bahorel propped himself up on one elbow and watched. There was ample opportunity for a Titanic joke there, but the longer he he stared, the less he wanted to ruin the moment. 

He could see an elegance that he wasn’t familiar with. The way Feuilly held his paintbrush — it was gentle. 

Bahorel had seen him at work. Restoration was an art, but it wasn’t this. It was bruises and scraped hands and burns and carpal tunnel from endless hours of minutiae. Restoration required finesse, but this — this was creation. 

This required a soft caress. 

Feuilly dabbed his brush against his palette and slowly, smoothly dragged it along the canvas. He was so invested in what he was doing — so transfixed — that he didn’t see Bahorel get up. He assumed (somewhat naively) that his best friend would pick up a book, or change the radio station, or do something characteristically Bahorel, like jumping jacks on the bed. 

“Can I play?” Bahorel asked from behind him. 

Feuilly snorted but didn’t turn around. 

Something cold and wet dripped down his back. 

“Shit, what the— !” He yelped and twisted, reaching between his shoulder blades. When he pulled his hand back, his fingers were covered in slick green paint. 

Bahorel looked as innocent as a carnivorous lamb. 

“What the fuck!” Feuilly shouted, putting his paintbrush and palette down. He tried to wipe his hand off on his jeans, but as he did, Bahorel slathered more of it across his chest. “You asshole!”

“I don’t have a canvas!” Bahorel protested cheerfully. “You’re the whitest thing in here.”

Feuilly shoved him, leaving two green handprints on his shirt. Bahorel hardly budged, but he grinned wolfishly. 

He squeezed a large glob of paint into his hand, and Feuilly took a step back. “No! No, don’t—” But Bahorel lunged at him. Feuilly ducked, grabbed a bottle of red and popped the cap, turning it on Bahorel just as he grabbed Feuilly by the pocket of his pants. A violent and messy war followed. 

Bahorel smeared his paint through Feuilly’s hair and down the side of his face. Feuilly sprayed red across Bahorel’s shirt and then let it drip under the collar as he reached for the next colour. Bahorel grabbed him, they toppled over — but with the paint in reach, it didn’t end. Blue, purple, white, yellow, green, orange — they got lost in brightness of it. They grimaced and choked on the taste and winced as it got in their eyes and ears, but neither gave in. They just reached for another bottle. 

Only after Bahorel pinned Feuilly to the ground, straddling his hips to hold him down to Feuilly shield his eyes with one arm and shout: “You win! For fuck’s sake, you win!”

Bahorel cackled victoriously. Feuilly panted. 

With his free hand, Bahorel dragged a finger across Feuilly’s chest, smugly writing his own name in the paint. Feuilly grumbled and twisted — but he’d given up trying to buck him off. 

“It’s a masterpiece,” Bahorel announced. 

“I bet it’s a shitshow,” Feuilly retorted, wiping his hand down the front of Bahorel’s shirt in retaliation. “And fuck, get off! You’re like a fucking bus!” The more he shifted his hips, the heavier Bahorel seemed. 

“Well, now I’m not going anywhere,” Bahorel replied, grinning. There was a feverish kind of glimmer in his handsome brown eyes.

Feuilly groaned. His little apartment was too hot for this. Too hot and too small, and the smell of paint was too strong — his head was starting to spin. 

Bahorel slid his hand up Feuilly’s side.

Feuilly twisted his fingers into the front of Bahorel’s shirt.

“Shit,” they both whispered. But they didn’t let go. 

“We can’t do this,” Feuilly muttered.

Bahorel snorted. “Tell that to your hard-on.”

“Fuck you!”

“I want you to,” Bahorel answered bluntly. He was still grinning, Feuilly noticed. He never seemed to stop — and it was the most mesmerising thing. Bahorel leaned forward, brushing his lips against Feuilly’s paint-stained cheek and murmured: “And I want to fuck you.” Feuilly grunted and closed his eyes. 

Bahorel kissed him. 

Feuilly kissed him back — harder. Bahorel’s mouth was hot and wet, and Feuilly felt a desperate need to just fucking get lost in it. He pushed his hips up, grinding recklessly against the man on top of him. 

“I really want to fuck you,” Bahorel repeated quietly. His voice was deeper, and his tone serious. 

Feuilly dragged Bahorel’s lower lip between his teeth. “Then do it,” he answered.

**

“So who’s the new girl?”

Feuilly blinked as Bossuet’s hand landed on his shoulder. He’d hardly heard the question, much less suspected that someone might have directed it at him. That was the sort of thing you asked Courfeyrac — or Bahorel — or Grantaire. “What?” He asked, looking up. 

“You have a hickey on your neck the size of of Bourgogne.” Bossuet explained, sliding into the chair beside him. “So who is she?”

Feuilly opened to his mouth to protest, rolled his eyes — and blushed. 

It wasn’t his fault. He was pale — ‘pasty white’ as Bahorel often said, and the slightest tinge of red always seemed amplified by the mess of ginger curls on his head. 

Bahorel chuckled. Feuilly kicked him under the table. 

Courfeyrac bounced over like a kitten who had just learned what the sound of the can opener meant and sprawled halfway across the table. “Tell us! Come on, you have to tell us now.”

Feuilly stared at him with his mouth slightly open. Courfeyrac pouted imploringly. After a moment, Feuilly huffed and said: “Buy me a pack of smokes.”

“Grantaire, sell me your cigarettes,” Courfeyrac instantly demanded. Grantaire snorted. It was his way of saying: ‘Fuck off’. Courfeyrac whined and dropped to his knees. His chin rested on the edge of the table, but he begged: “Pleeeease. Other people’s romances are my Christmas.”

Feuilly folded his arms over his chest. 

“So what’s Christmas to you, then?” Enjolras asked drily. 

“Also Christmas,” Courfeyrac answered. He stared at Feuilly with wide, sad eyes. Feuilly didn’t budge. “Fine!” Courfeyrac shouted at last.

He struggled to his feet, hauling himself up with the table’s help because he’d clearly forgotten how to use his own legs. 

“Fine!” He repeated.

And then he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “I will be. right. back.” He fled out the café’s door. 

Feuilly kept a straight face, but Bahorel snickered. And Grantaire, who had possessively moved his cigarettes to his back pocket, watched them curiously. His blue eyes slid from Feuilly to Bahorel and back again — and then to the impressively large, purpling bruise on Feuilly’s throat.

Five minutes later, Courfeyrac scrambled back through the door. He panted heavily as he lunged across the floor and collapsed at Feuilly’s feet — but he held a box of cigarettes aloft with a whine. 

Feuilly bit his lip. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. 

The others watched the exchange apprehensively. Well — the others minus Combeferre and Enjolras, who never seemed to have trouble finding something completely unrelated to the drama of their friends’ relationships to interest them in critical moments. (“Nice day.” “Yeah, good breeze.”)

Feuilly nodded. 

He stood up.

He took plucked the cigarettes from Courfeyrac’s hand.

And he skipped into the May sunshine without a word. 

Courfeyrac froze for half a second — then let out a loud, miserable death wail and tried to roll across the floor after him. He got stuck on a chair — Feuilly was long gone by that point, but it hadn’t stopped Courf from trying. He howled angrily, curling up around the legs as he cursed the soulless nature of ginger people. 

From the table in the corner, Combeferre shook his head. “And that’s why they tell you to always get everything in writing.”

**

“Hey, see you tomorrow.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. 

Bahorel stopped. 

He didn’t want to ask. Grantaire was a moody little fuck on a good day, and Bahorel had places to be. Well — a place that he really, really wanted to be. But Grantaire rarely if ever turned that sour attitude on him, and that was worth questioning. 

So, he stopped with one hand on the door, and asked: “What?”

Grantaire didn’t look up from the television. “You’re going to Feuilly’s again.”

Well, no shit — Feuilly and Bahorel were best friends. “And?” Bahorel asked. “I do that all the time.”

“And you don’t usually come back reeking of sex,” Grantaire replied. “You could at least try to be subtle.”

Bahorel didn’t say anything. 

Grantaire looked over his shoulder — and to Bahorel’s surprise, he realised that R’s expression was almost sympathetic. He didn’t sound bitter; he didn’t look angry. He just seemed concerned? 

But that didn’t make facing reality any easier to deal with. 

Bahorel’s shoulders tensed, and his hand reflexively clenched into a fist. 

“Look, I don’t give a shit,” Grantaire explained. “Where you stick it is not my problem—”

“Then why the fuck did you bring it up?” Bahorel growled.

“I’m just saying, you’re not hiding it. If you were even trying.”

“I don’t have time for this.” But he didn’t move. 

Grantaire looked back at the television. He could feel Bahorel staring daggers at him from across the room. 

After a moment, Bahorel asked: “So who else knows?”

“Probably no one,” Grantaire told him, digging into his pocket for his flask. “I mean, maybe Combeferre, but that kid’s fucking psychic or something. Kind of ironic.”

“Grantaire.”

“What? Are you asking me if I told anyone?” Grantaire took a swig. “Because if you’re asking me that, I’m going to call Courfeyrac.”

Bahorel took a deep breath — he looked up at the ceiling, and tried to temper the tension and rage building in his chest. Honestly, he didn’t even know why he was angry — he wasn’t ashamed. 

He just really didn’t want it to end. 

“Just keep it to yourself, okay?” 

Grantaire raised his drink in mock salute and pursed his lips. 

“R, I’m serious.”

“Jesus, I’m not going to fucking tell anyone. Just go.” 

Bahorel leaned against the door. “Why’d you even mention it?”

“Because it’s stupid for you to pay rent here when you live there,” Grantaire answered, reaching for the remote. He shut the television off, and continued: “Are you gonna move out? Is he going to move in here? I don’t care, I’m just— I’m living alone at this point, and I wanna know if that’s going to change.”

His tone implied that living alone was not ideal for him — but Bahorel knew that. 

They were great roommates. Grantaire didn’t usually care that Bahorel came and went as his leisure, because Bahorel always came back. Bahorel didn’t care that Grantaire woke up at three or four in the afternoon, and passed out with a bottle of liquor in his hand every other day. 

Well, he did care — but he didn’t make a big fuss about it. 

“We’re not moving in together,” Bahorel grunted. “We’re not—”

Grantaire didn’t finish the sentence for him. He wasn’t cruel. “Just let me know if I should look for another place to live, is all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, right,” Bahorel said with a snort. He straightened up and finally pulled the door open. Stepping out into the hallway, he called back: “We’d need a fucking shovel to scrape you off that couch.”

Grantaire grinned. “Give him a kiss from me.” Okay, so he wasn’t cruel — but he wasn’t exactly good.

Bahorel slammed the door and made a mental note to put a dead fish in Grantaire’s flask the next time he had a chance.

**

Bahorel chucked his backpack to the floor. Even against the carpet, the law books in it cracked together like a sack of bricks — but Feuilly didn’t look up. He was curled up in bed, absorbed in his book, and he very much intended to stay that way. 

Sundays were his quiet time. 

But to be honest, when your best friend turned… well, whatever it was they’d become in the last week was Bahorel — there really wasn’t any such thing as quiet time. Not that it stopped Feuilly from trying. 

He turned the page without even acknowledging Bahorel’s presence. But Bahorel knew it wasn’t deliberate — the wide-eyed, slightly open-mouthed, rapt expression on Feuilly’s face told him quite plainly that it was just an interesting book. 

He’d have bet his right hand that it was about 1772.

He kicked off his boots and slid onto the bed. It wasn’t really big enough for both of them, but in some ways, that made it perfect. 

Feuilly leaned back against him as Bahorel slipped one arm around his waist and held him close. Bahorel could have fallen asleep there while Feuilly read — he wanted to. 

But he couldn’t keep Grantaire knowing to himself. 

He pressed his lips to the side of Feuilly’s neck. The artist shivered and affectionately dragged his fingers across the back of Bahorel’s hand before reaching out to turn the page again.   
“Hey, I need to tell you something,” Bahorel murmured. 

“Yeah?” 

Bahorel breathed out slowly. His breath — hot and slightly smoky, because he’d helped himself to a cigarette on his way over — washed over Feuilly’s skin, making Feuilly groan. 

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, clutching the book roughly with both hands. 

Bahorel smirked. “Sorry.” He tightened his hold around Feuilly’s waist. “R knows.” 

Feuilly stared blankly at the page. 

“He’s not gonna say anything…” Bahorel trailed off. But in the silence he was asking himself if he’d really have cared if Grantaire did tell. 

He’d have punched him. But only because friends didn’t fucking tattle on friends. Everybody knew that. 

“Okay.” 

Bahorel raised an eyebrow — not that Feuilly could see it. “Okay?” 

Feuilly closed his book, pushed it onto a shelf, and rolled over. “Well, what… I mean, what does that mean… y’know, for us?” 

“Nothing,” Bahorel answered immediately. He pushed himself up on one elbow and kept his other hand pressed against Feuilly’s lower back. “It doesn’t matter, I just thought you should know.”

Feuilly looked away. His gaze dropped to Bahorel’s chest — to the ridiculously low v of his black, v-neck shirt. His eyes narrowed. “Did you cut that yourself?”

Bahorel glanced down — and then chuckled. “Yup. Grabbed a pair of scissors.”

Feuilly grimaced. “For fuck’s sake.”

Bahorel grinned. “You like it.”

“You’re a fucking moron.”

Bahorel wrapped him up tight and smothered him with kisses. “You liiike it.” Feuilly hissed and tried to shove him off — but trying to dislodge Bahorel was like trying to move a small house. A wrecking ball could do it, but a normal-sized man could not. Bahorel sprawled out on top of him, and laid there until Feuilly gave up. 

He did, eventually — when he started panting. 

Bahorel smirked. His face was pressed into the sheet, but he mumbled: “You should quit smoking.”

“You should quit being an asshole,” Feuilly growled back. 

Bahorel lifted his head just enough to look Feuilly in the eye. “If you quit being such a foxy motherfucker.”

“I will bite your god damn face off if you call me a fox one more time.”

“Fox,” Bahorel replied immediately. “But point of order—” He jerked back quickly as Feuilly lunged at him. “Point of order!” He repeated, holding Feuilly down with one hand. “I called you ‘foxy’ the first time. Not a fox.” The glare Feuilly was giving him suggested that the distinction didn’t really matter. Bahorel’s wolf-like grin widened. 

Feuilly’s glare softened. “Jerk.”

“Fox,” Bahorel repeated, kissing the corner of his mouth. 

Feuilly bit his lip — hard. 

“Fuck!” Bahorel shouted. “Ow!”

But if he thought he could even try to be mad at the coy smirk Feuilly was giving him when he looked back down, he was dead wrong. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” he growled. 

“Make me,” Feuilly challenged. 

Bahorel did. 

Twice. 

Quite a while later, Bahorel wrapped his arms around Feuilly again, and buried his face against his warm, slightly sweaty skin. “So, what are we going to do about R?” He asked casually. 

“Can we not talk about R when we’re naked?” Feuilly answered. 

“Come on,” Bahorel insisted, leaving scratchy kisses from Feuilly’s collarbone to his jaw. “This is important.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Feuilly replied, sounding significantly more strained. “But timing is a thing with normal people, you know?”

“Fuck normalcy.”

Touché, Feuilly silently admitted. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what we should do.”

“You could have sex with him,” Bahorel joked, smiling as he brushed his lips against Feuilly’s neck.

“Why me? He’s your roommate — you do it.”

“I only fuck redheads.”

“You fucking liar.” Feuilly pushed Bahorel’s face away from the very sensitive skin he was licking. They’d learned a few days ago that Feuilly bruised too easily. 

But Bahorel didn’t. 

Feuilly bit down on his shoulder in retaliation. Bahorel only laughed. 

“We have to do something,” Bahorel murmured. 

“Yeah, but what?”

“Let’s get him a girlfriend.”

“Just make sure her name is Enjolras,” Feuilly replied.

“Does Enjolras have a sister?”

“No. But if he did, he would fucking burn Grantaire alive for breathing near her.”

“What about my sister?”

“Roshni would burn him alive because your sister is a fucking demon.”

“But would she sleep with him first?”

Feuilly struggled to extract himself from underneath Bahorel. He didn’t make it very far, but he did manage to sit up. “You’re the worst big brother ever.”

“Fuck you,” Bahorel replied, refusing to let go of him. “I am fantastic.”

“You want your nineteen year old sister to sleep with a twenty-five year old alcoholic.”

“Our twenty-five year old alcoholic friend,” Bahorel corrected. 

Feuilly reached for his book again. He couldn’t bring himself to dignify what Bahorel was saying with an actual answer. 

“I mean, if it’s her or you,” Bahorel continued, grinning obscenely. 

Feuilly shoved the book in his face. “Stop. Stop talking, and start reading. Page two hundred and twelve.” 

Bahorel laughed as he opened it up and found the right page. Feuilly closed his eyes and curled up against him, and Bahorel quietly started reading.

They could talk about the important things later.

**

Grantaire slid right past Enjolras’s name in his contacts and stopped on Courfeyrac. He hit ‘send’ before he’d even realised what he was doing. 

As his phone rang, he lifted his flask to his lips again. He felt guilty. He hated feeling guilty, but it gnawed at him anyway, and past experience told him that the only real way to cope with that feeling was alcohol. 

Guilt could gnaw at him all it wanted.

It didn’t matter if he couldn’t feel it. 

Courfeyrac answered: “Yeah?”

“What are you up to?” Grantaire asked. 

“Just got back from Combeferre’s. He was helping me with work.”

Grantaire stared blankly at the opposite wall, since he couldn’t stare blankly at Courfeyrac. 

“R?”

“It’s Sunday,” Grantaire hissed.

“I needed help,” Courfeyrac whined. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Come over. Watch… shit, I don’t even know. What’s on these days?”

“Did you start drinking already?”

“I plead the fifth, your honour.”

“R, you’re French. The American constitution doesn’t apply to us.”

“But I saw it on TV.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “I’ll bring my movies.”

“You’re a peach,” Grantaire replied, and hung up. With some effort, he rolled out of the couch that had threatened to eat him alive, and wobbled into the kitchen. He knew that it would take Courfeyrac about twenty minutes to get to his place — and he knew that he could drink four beers in that time without vomiting. 

He could also drink several shots of whiskey.

Really it was just a toss-up at the point. Which alcohol did he like more? Or maybe it was which would make him hate himself least?

He settled on a strangely flavoured vodka that was stashed at the back of the fridge — Eponine’s, no doubt. 

When Courfeyrac knocked, Grantaire was well under the table. But Courfeyrac was accustomed to that — he didn’t think anything of it. He waltzed inside with his bag slung over his shoulder and— 

Grantaire tilted his head, looking down at Courfeyrac’s pants.

“Are those penguins?”

Courfeyrac flopped down on the couch. “Yes.”

He’d worn his pyjama pants because he had every intention of staying the night. And he’d changed into them before he left because sometimes a man just didn’t god damn care what he wore out of the house. 

“Look, if you’re trying to seduce me,” Grantaire started. 

Courfeyrac snorted. 

“Cosette is over,” he explained. 

He didn’t mind when Marius’s girlfriend stayed the night. He didn’t — not one bit. But for some reason Marius did.

He’d mentioned something a while ago about Cosette sitting in the kitchen, wearing nothing but one of Marius’s shirts, and talking to Courfeyrac about art and other irresponsibly seductive things. Apparently that was bad, from Marius’s point of view.

Courfeyrac had thought it was good fun. 

So he’d been effectively banished. Usually he went to Jehan’s and Combeferre’s place — but there was only so many times he could show up on their doorstep unannounced, with an annoyed pout on his face. Since Grantaire had asked for him — Grantaire was therefore obligated to house him. 

“But penguins?”

“Fluffy penguins,” Courfeyrac replied, pulling his DVD case out of his bag. “You can choose, but no horror and no cheesy action movies.”

“I live with a cheesy action movie,” Grantaire retorted, grabbing the black leather binder. “I don’t need any more.”

Courfeyrac crawled over the back of the couch (rather than walking around it, because why be sensible when you could be Courfeyrac), and wandered into Bahorel’s and Grantaire’s kitchenette. “Are you keeping all the alcohol for yourself?”

“Why?” Grantaire asked, flipping through the pages.

“Are you serious?” Courfeyrac answered. “Because I’m sexiled, and the only thing for it is booze.”

Grantaire looked up. “Did you just say boobs, or booze?”

Courfeyrac peeked at him from around the refrigerator door. “Which do you want me to have said?”

“…so we’re watching Titanic.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed. Grantaire whistled innocently as he slipped the disc into the DVD player. After a moment Courfeyrac closed the fridge door (beer in hand) and asked: “Are you just gonna fast forward to the car scene?”

“I don’t know what you’re talk about,” Grantaire replied, sprawling out on the couch again. “By the way my couch isn’t big enough for the two of us, so I guess you’re just going to have to freeze to death on the floor.”

“Bite me,” Courfeyrac retorted, bouncing over the back and landing on top of him. Grantaire swore loudly, and forfeited the remote as Courfeyrac made himself comfortable. Courfeyrac opened up the DVD menu, and selected a chapter somewhere in the middle. “Nihilist tool,” he muttered. “You always start with ‘Do you trust me?’”

Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio filled the screen, complete with brain-rotting theme music. Courfeyrac groaned. 

“Why do you even have this if you hate it so much?” Grantaire asked, fluffing the pillow under his head. 

Courfeyrac waved the remote at the screen. “Kate Winslet,” he answered, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

It should have been. Grantaire accepted it. 

They watched the movie in fragments, skipping back and forth to insult everything they could come up with. (“Frozen people float. Leo totally could have just used the bodies as a raft.” “I mean, what the fucking hell was wrong with these people, that dining room is atrocious.”) For an hour and a half, Courfeyrac deliberately avoided anything to do with nudity or steamy handprints on glass windows, and Grantaire — who was becoming increasingly convinced that there was a unicorn in the room (because honestly, Eponine — what the fuck was in that bottle) — cheerfully allowed it. At no point did Courfeyrac actually move off Grantaire. 

Only when Courfeyrac was convinced that they were ready did he stop on ‘one of your French girls’.

“French girls don’t do that for me,” Grantaire muttered. 

“I know a few French boys that would do that for you,” Courfeyrac replied. His head tilted to the side slowly, and his mouth fell open in an enamoured, and simultaneously impressed kind of way. “She’s magical,” he breathed. 

Grantaire grunted. 

Something about the magic being on a two-dimensional screen was not quite doing it for him. 

Courfeyrac fast-forwarded to the scene in the car. He seemed to know exactly when in the movie it was, and Grantaire didn’t have the energy (or the sense at that point) to question it. 

Loud, dramatic music filled the room. 

A hand pressed against the foggy car window.

“It was funnier in Jurassic Park,” Grantaire muttered. Courfeyrac smacked his chest. This was not the time to discuss disembodied limbs. 

The camera panned to Kate and Leo inside the car, and Courfeyrac watched, completely transfixed.

Grantaire watched Courfeyrac.

He watched Courfeyrac lick his lips slowly. He watched Courfeyrac’s eyes get wider as Kate and Leo got closer. 

He watched, and he smirked when Courfeyrac glanced down at him. 

“I’d say you’re ruining it,” Courfeyrac told him, “but I do understand.”

Grantaire squinted. 

Courfeyrac shifted. 

Grantaire grunted because — with a wave of heat radiating up from his lap — suddenly everything made sense. “Sorry,” he muttered. 

Courfeyrac didn’t move. He looked back to the television. “Apologising is only an affront to Kate,” he answered wistfully. “Accept your lust. Cherish it.”

Grantaire covered his face with his hand.

“I mean, there’s Leo, too,” Courfeyrac went on. “That’s really just criminal when you think about it. That’s why this movie made a killing. Heh— killing. Get it?” He glanced down at Grantaire again. “…are you alright?”

Grantaire dragged his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down. Courfeyrac was sitting in the most inconvenient place — in warm, fuzzy fucking pants, and it was god damn impossible to move without… moving.

“Is it not Kate, then?” Courfeyrac asked with a smirk.

“Get off,” Grantaire groaned. 

Courfeyrac gingerly moved off him, relocating to the floor just beside the couch. “Is there something I can help you with, Rose?”

“That’s not a line from the movie.”

“How would you know? You weren’t paying attention.” Courfeyrac paused the movie and glanced over his shoulder at the door. “When’s Bahorel coming back?”

Grantaire didn’t answer. 

Courfeyrac blinked and twisted around to face him again. “Oh.” And then all too quickly, he looked devious. “Well, that’s good.”

“Good?”

Courfeyrac reached out and put his hand on Grantaire’s leg, just above the knee. “That’s one of the good things about Paris,” Courfeyrac replied. “Lot of people willing to take their clothes off.”

Grantaire inhaled sharply.

And then he gave in.


End file.
